


Tantalus, Reaching

by chellethewriter



Series: Even Ice Gods Can Melt [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, But only a little, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Episode 12, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, i add some behind the scenes kissing, it's a sort-of sequel but you really don't need the previous work, pining!victor, this is basically the whole series from Viktor's POV, viktor is so in love with yuuri in this it's unreal, yuuri is oblivious for the most part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9058576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellethewriter/pseuds/chellethewriter
Summary: When Viktor Nikiforov arrives in Hasetsu, he expects the Katsuki Yuuri from the banquet -- the shameless, sensual dancer who made Viktor feel alive for the first time in years. Instead, he finds a different Katsuki Yuuri -- a boy who lacks confidence and flinches at Viktor’s touch.In Viktor’s determination to reconcile these contrastive personalities, he realizes two things: one, that first impressions are not everything, and two, that he may or may not be in love with every side of Yuuri. (In other words, a retelling of the series that chronicles how a five-time Grand Prix champion might attempt to woo a somewhat oblivious Japanese figure skater.)





	1. Meeting Eros

**Author's Note:**

> I read a post in which someone begged for the series from Viktor's perspective, considering the revelation about the banquet in episode 10. And since I wrote a previous fic chronicling the shenanigans at that banquet, I figured... why not?  
> So please enjoy Viktor Nikiforov's quest to make Yuuri fall in love with him.  
> This is also way longer than I intended it to be oops

Everything is warm and hazy. There’s steam curling from the water, the tendrils like ribbons. They rise slowly, marrying the cold air further above and disintegrating into nothing. Viktor watches them -- focuses on them. A breathy sigh escapes him. The hot springs are supposed to be relaxing, aren’t they? So he lets their heat sear into his skin and deeper still, loosening the limbs that have grown stiff from travel and nervousness. 

Yes, nervousness. Viktor is nervous. 

On the plane, he told himself that he wouldn’t be. He told himself that this was what he had waited for -- had been  _ preparing for --  _ for months.

Over seven thousand kilometers later, and Viktor can hardly believe the circumstances that led him to this tiny town of Hasetsu -- a town in Japan, of all places, which is astoundingly far from Viktor’s home city of St. Petersburg. Viktor can’t even verbalize his reason for the trip either -- not out loud, not even to himself. It’s too ridiculous. 

He remembers the way Yakov, his former ice skating coach, sputtered when Viktor made the mistake of admitting that reason.

_ “Love, Vitya? What, are you a teenage girl? This must be a joke.” _

A teenaged girl? Certainly not. A teenaged girl surely would have moved on by now. A teenaged girl wouldn’t put so much stock in a drunken dance with a stranger. No, no… Viktor has reached an entirely unprecedented level of smitten and pathetic, and he hates himself for it. 

Even Viktor’s rinkmate Georgi, who treats each break-up like a global catastrophe, would probably have moved on by now. 

Because months ago, Viktor Nikiforov -- five-time Grand Prix gold medalist in figure skating, charismatic playboy extraordinaire, heartthrob to the entire skating world -- fell fast and hard for a fellow skater, and has been hopelessly infatuated ever since. 

This phenomenon was strange for many reasons. Firstly, Viktor hadn’t “fallen” for anyone since he was sixteen years old and  _ stupid _ . Secondly, the person he fell for was completely drunk and spoke a language that Viktor, at the time, did not even understand. And thirdly, that person quite literally abandoned Viktor without any means to contact him, having only reappeared to the world in the form of teasing video. A video of him casually skating Viktor’s routine, mind you -- as if that wasn’t enough to drive a person  _ already _ nearing pining-induced insanity (aka Viktor) straight over the edge. 

Viktor can’t even explain it to himself. All he knows is that a soundtrack of memories constantly loops within his mind -- memories of the banquet where he met and danced with one Yuuri Katsuki. Memories of Yuuri’s body against his, of Yuuri’s soft murmurs against Viktor’s skin, of Yuuri’s arms outstretched in an implicit invitation to spend the night together -- one that Viktor ever-so-reluctantly  _ declined _ out of a sense of chivalry. (And yes, much to his own shame, there’s a less moral side of Viktor that endlessly  _ screams  _ at himself for not saying yes).

Ever since that moment, Viktor has imagined how they might reunite. The hot springs, he supposes, opens up possibilities that are quite literally far  _ steamier  _ than anything he anticipated. Yuuri is one of the most sexual and attractive people Viktor has ever met, and he can’t imagine that they won’t take advantage of their surroundings. 

There’s always a sort of procedure to Viktor’s fantasies of their reunion. There’s always Yuuri saying Viktor’s name -- the same way he did at the banquet, all those months before, in a bright and hopeful voice that makes Viktor’s heart rise to his throat. And then there’s Yuuri throwing his arms around Viktor, replicating their contact from the ballroom dance floor, bodies pressed together once more. But Viktor will kiss him this time -- he missed his last opportunity, and he most certainly  _ will not _ do so again. And then, hopefully, things will escalate further -- escalate enough for Viktor’s less moral side to  _ finally _ be satisfied. 

He’s so damn nervous. Viktor has skated internationally televised competitions, and  _ this _ has rendered him so nervous that he’s nearly shaking, despite the hot springs. 

And then, finally, the moment of truth. There’s the sound of running -- stumbling -- footsteps, crashing through the onsen. The doors to the hot springs push open and shut with a clatter, leaving Yuuri --  _ Viktor’s Yuuri _ \-- standing in front of him, panting slightly from sprinting (Viktor is a little too gratified to think that Yuuri  _ ran _ to him). 

But he looks… he looks  _ different _ . Of course, from the video, Viktor already knew that Yuuri had gained some weight since he last saw him (Viktor distinctly remembers the exact appearance of Yuuri’s body, thanks to some unscrupulous pole-dancing he performed at the banquet). He didn’t mind -- didn’t care about it. But there are differences that go  _ beyond  _ that. Differences that Viktor can’t help but care about. 

“Vi--Viktor?” Yuuri exhales shakily, his eyes wide and -- is that  _ terror? _

There’s a hunch in Yuuri’s shoulders. Overall, his stance gives the strange impression that Yuuri is trying to fold in upon himself -- shrink to the smallest possible size. This posture… Viktor would not think it possible from the boy who had confidently stolen his heart so many months ago, the boy who challenged numerous competitors to shameless dance-offs (some of which included the aforementioned pole-dancing). 

Even the way Yuuri says Viktor’s name -- it’s not hopeful. It’s not bright. It’s quiet and fearful and  _ stunned _ . 

“Why are you here?” Yuuri stammers (in English, thankfully), but those words, above all else, are like  _ a slap in the face _ . 

How could Yuuri not know why Viktor is here? He doesn’t understand. Yuuri  _ invited him _ to Japan. And his performance of Viktor’s routine -- everything about that  _ screamed  _ that Yuuri wanted him. 

Or so he thought. 

No.  _ No _ . Viktor decides to assume that Yuuri is just surprised -- taken off guard. Sure, this reunion hasn’t gone perfectly to plan, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be salvaged. Viktor traveled all the way to Japan, is currently sitting buck naked in an onsen, and if that isn’t sending a clear message to Yuuri already, then he’ll just take it a step  _ further _ . 

“Yuuri!” he beams, nearly  _ bursting _ the word with the sheer abundance of affection he pours into those two syllables. Viktor stands, steamy water dripping off his bare skin. He’s far from being self-conscious about Yuuri seeing him like this. If anything, he’s hoping that it will serve as some sort of epiphany for the other man, snapping him out of his confusion and fear. Viktor happens to know that his physique can be quite life-changing to see for some people. 

“Starting today,” Viktor continues, his arm outstretched and beckoning for Yuuri to come closer, “I’m your coach! I’ll make you win the Grand Prix final.”

_ Among other activities _ , Viktor adds internally, externally displaying that sentiment with the most seductive wink he can muster. (And Viktor can muster some  _ pretty seductive _ winks, in his honest opinion).

Yuuri screams. 

* * *

Viktor isn’t sure what to call this situation. Because, really, what do you call it when someone practically  _ shoves _ his way into your life and your heart, holds you close and sets you on  _ fire _ with desire, only for that person to disappear for months, leaving you empty and  _ aching _ and  _ longing _ ?

What do you call it when, finally, you close the gap between the two of you again, achieving that dreamlike reunion… only to discover that you were  _ wrong _ ... that everything you wanted is still out of reach… that he reacts to your touch like it is something  _ poisonous _ ?

What, what,  _ what _ do you call that, he wonders? His chest is so tight with disappointment; his mind is screaming. 

Wrong, wrong… so  _ wrong _ . He was so wrong. 

Is it  _ irony,  _ he demands _?  _ No, no… irony is poetic. This is plain  _ cruelty… _ a curse. The universe playing fatal jokes, knocking him off of his pedestal -- off of his podium. Taunting him with the one thing that his medals and his fame really couldn’t give him, the cliche that it is. 

Viktor learned about greek myths in school. There was one king -- a mortal named Tantalus, ever so greedy and confident, who was cursed to stand in a pool beneath a tree of succulent fruit, only for the branches and the water to recede whenever he reached for them. 

That is his life now, he supposes. Viktor has pretended to be a god for so long, aloof and perfect, that the real one must be wreaking its revenge on him. 

Alone. They were alone, finally.  _ Finally _ . Up until then, they had been surrounded by the inn’s guests, or Yuuri’s mother, or Minako. Viktor had steeled himself. After his bath, he ate dinner with Yuuri in silence. A painful, strained silence. A silence so cold and heavy that Viktor had felt his blood freezing in his own veins.  _ Say something, say anything at all, I’m here for you, damn you.  _

With Yuuri’s warm yet fearful eyes trained upon him, he had found himself drowsy and falling asleep, exhausted from his travels and his worries. It was upon waking up that he discovered Minako -- a remarkably attractive woman, standing over him. A woman who evidently knew a lot about Yuuri, about his habits, about his likes and dislikes. 

Which were all things that had been mysteries to Viktor, much to his frustration. Mysteries that had tortured him for months. Before he could stop himself, that frustration began to pour from his mouth in the form of hurtful words toward Yuuri. The words felt good. Cathartic, and justified.  _ Screw you for leaving me behind. _ But they hadn’t been helping him or Yuuri, he had known. Not really. 

But...she _had_ _him_. Romantically, he hadn’t been sure at all. But she _knew_ him, and spent time with him, and clearly loved him in some way. Yuuri had not let Viktor do that. Not yet. 

_ Damn you, little piggy. Greedy pig. A glutton who wants so much, wants food, wants success, wants respect, wants a gold medal -- but not what he should. He should want me… he should-- _

_ Do you know how much I’ve already sacrificed for you? _

Viktor has never hated himself so much. He has never been so jealous, so possessive, so  _ desperate. _ There is a demon of want in his chest, clawing constantly and viciously. He knows. Viktor  _ knows _ that he is the real pig, no matter what he says. A starving, arrogant pig, caught reaching for pristine branches that were never his to claim. 

But in the banquet room in which Viktor was determined to make a new home, they were  _ alone, alone, alone _ . Giddiness flared within him like fireworks, sparking so brightly. Does Yuuri like fireworks? He didn’t know. He wanted to.

Yuuri was on the floor, dutifully unloading Viktor’s possessions. In those moments together, Viktor could feel his anxiousness, rolling off him in palpable waves. Was this truly the energetic boy that had danced with him, had stolen his heart? Maybe he was in there, somewhere. Maybe out of the view of his family and their customers, he would be different. He hoped.

With another wink, Viktor began to effuse compliments and reassurances, dropping down to the ground to kneel beside him. Yuuri started at the movement, stared like a deer caught in headlights. Behind those blue-framed glasses, Yuuri’s eyes sparkled like no eyes Viktor had ever seen.  _ Those _ definitely belonged to the boy from the banquet. 

He wanted to hold those eyes captive. 

With Viktor’s stare reaching an unprecedented intensity, a blush began to spread across Yuuri’s cheeks, fanning out in delicate warmth. And  _ God _ , that was beautiful. That blush -- that blush belonged to the boy from the banquet as well. It was the same blush, even without the alcohol. 

Perhaps this Yuuri was closed up, folded and folded upon himself. But Viktor was determined to unfold him, to rediscover what he had lost that night...

Viktor  _ wanted _ , wanted  _ so badly.  _

“Yuuri, tell me everything about you.” 

His fingers found the spot beneath Yuuri’s chin, holding it gently, tipping it upwards. His skin was warm from his blush. Viktor leaned closer, more questions on his lips. His remaining hand proceeded to find one of Yuuri’s, holding it within his grasp. Soft. His skin was so soft--

“Let’s build some trust in our relationship.”

_ Please don’t run away from me again _ .

But that… that was exactly what Yuuri did, flinging himself across the room like he was launched from a slingshot. Before Viktor could properly react, Yuuri was several meters away, back pressed against the wall like he wanted to be behind it and  _ gone _ . 

The branch receded. Viktor’s hands were still outstretched, grasping at nothing. 

Viktor couldn’t even suppress his confusion and disappointment this time. “What? Why are you running away?” he demanded. The demon of want was clawing, clawing so furiously. He was  _ so close. _

And it wasn’t just in the banquet room. It was afterward, when Viktor asked to sleep with him and was rejected with a tightly closed door, Yuuri shut away behind it. 

Viktor doesn’t cry. Not really. But that night, as he falls asleep alone in his own bed, contemplating his situation, there might be a few tears of frustration. Just a few. 

Seven thousand kilometers. Viktor had traveled and searched and  _ reached _ for Yuuri over seven thousand kilometers... and  _ still _ the branch receded from his reach. 

Damn him.

* * *

When Viktor skates the next day, he feels Yuuri’s eyes trained on him again. Warm, brown eyes. Sparkling and flickering like flames. So beautiful, so warm.

The rink is cold. It feels like home, feels like Viktor. In fact, Viktor has always seemed like he was born from the ice. His hair, silver like long-frozen icicles. Blue eyes, striated with the color of frost. Skin so pale, like snow. 

Even the way he slides along the ice, letting it chip and slush and frost at his feet without worry or thought -- it seems like he is part of it. He is smooth water, sliding frictionlessly against the surface. Spinning, jumping with ease. His skates carve designs so intricate that true artists would be jealous. He feels at home in the cold air, naturally draws it into his lungs. A quad flip? Easy, so easy. 

Yuuri is staring, eyes warm with awe and admiration, and Viktor is beginning to melt. 

Their roles are switched, suddenly. Viktor remembers staring at Yuuri like that at the banquet. The Japanese skater, stripped down to his boxer briefs, smiling so brightly that Viktor could’ve combusted at the sight--

_ I’ll make you that boy again. I won’t let him go.  _

“The little piggy can’t enter the rink until he drops some body fat!” he teases with a false smile, frustration bursting out of him in brief, hurtful spurts. Maybe insults and challenges will draw out the Yuuri he met, the one who gleefully danced in a drunken haze, the one who made Viktor feel alive and good and  _ warm _ for the first time in  _ years _ . 

But this Yuuri -- the only Yuuri he has left... His eyes drop down toward the ice in shame. Viktor’s heart freezes and crystallizes. 

Yuuri feels shame so easily. It comes to him quicker than any smile. Viktor begins to wonder if he is ashamed of the night of the banquet -- perhaps that is why he is so reluctant, why he runs away so determinedly. 

_ Please...don’t make me let him go. _

* * *

Viktor has never seen determination quite like Yuuri’s. With every fat-burning, calorie-obliterating exercise Viktor demands from him, his face becomes steely, his mouth sealed shut against his own potential complaints. He accepts every criticism quietly and humbly, works endlessly through some of the most painful workouts that Viktor has ever seen. Even after Viktor has gone to bed, the sun set far below the horizon, Yuuri continues.  _ Fighting, fighting _ ,  _ fighting _ for praise and a place beside Viktor on the ice.

For Viktor, the coach, he does anything that is asked of him. He works and toils and sacrifices every part of his pride and his body. Slowly, painstakingly, the weight that he gained begins to disappear. With every kilogram lost, Yuuri grows more hopeful. 

Oh yes, he definitely  _ wants _ to be coached by Viktor. That much is clear. He’ll do anything for that. 

But he doesn’t  _ want _ Viktor. 

And if he doesn’t want Viktor in that way, in the way that Viktor has wanted him from the start, then what does he want?

Viktor sits beside Yuuri on a bench. Yuuri, who is standing and jumping, carrying out yet another slew of agonizing calisthenics. Sunlight strikes the sweat beading at his brow, illuminating the blush on his cheeks. In fact, it seems like he is  _ always _ blushing around Viktor, not that Viktor is keen to complain about it. 

“Do you have feelings for Minako?” Viktor blurts, the question having been weighing on him for days. 

“What?” Yuuri sputters, so stunned that he drops into a kneeling position. “No way!”

Viktor tries to not feel  _ too  _ pleased. A mental checkmark is formed. Despite how Minako speaks of him, and vice versa, there appears to be nothing romantic to their relationship. 

He presses further still. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” 

Yuuri’s voice is soft and ashamed when he admits, “No.”

No girlfriend! Single, available,  _ perfect. _ Viktor can barely contain his own excitement when he asks, “Any ex-girlfriends?” His question is quickly answered with a denial for information that demonstrates the truth too clearly. 

No girlfriend. No ex-girlfriends. And given the way that Yuuri grinded on him at the banquet, he must feel  _ something _ for men. The signs are showing more positively than Viktor has grown to expect. Wooing Yuuri? Easy. This should be  _ easy _ . 

Heart fluttering with relief, Viktor proceeds to talk about himself, trying to demonstrate that he too is single, that he’s been unhappy with his love life, that he’s ready to  _ move on _ to someone new -- but  _ dammit _ , there Yuuri goes again, interrupting him, stopping him.  _ Why _ is he so blind,  _ why _ can’t he see what Viktor is displaying like a billboard--?

Maybe not so easy after all. 

Viktor sighs heavily, head in his hands. There’s a space between them on the bench, a large void that presses and  _ pushes _ upon Viktor. He still itches to close it, but right now, he doesn’t dare. 

There are a lot of things that he doesn’t dare do. He doesn’t dare touch Yuuri, doesn’t dare speak of the banquet. He can’t let this branch recede any further. 

* * *

Viktor doesn’t try to break promises. He doesn’t try to forget important events.

But his brain tends to...prioritize. It tends to shove certain things toward the far, far back of his mind, out of sight and recollection. And frankly, the memory of his promise to Yuri Plisetsky had been nearly eradicated by the memories of the Grand Prix banquet of which Yuuri had become the star. 

Now that he has arrived in Japan, Yuri will want a reason for his forgetfulness, he knows. Viktor can’t tell him -- not after the way Yakov reacted. An easily-angered fifteen-year-old, of all people, most definitely will not understand. (Does  _ Viktor _ really even understand it himself?). 

_ Sorry, Yuri, I can’t mentor you anymore because I fell in love with this Japanese skater. Currently, I’m planning to be his coach in a desperate attempt to be close to him despite the way he keeps rejecting me. Enjoy your flight back to Russia! _

Did Viktor call himself  _ pathetic _ recently? Because, really, he should do that more often. 

“A promise is a promise!” Yuri yells petulantly. “You’ll choreograph my new program, Viktor! Let’s go back to Russia!” 

Yuri swipes his hand across his body, almost like he is pushing Yuuri -- who is standing beside him, having entered the rink with the younger boy -- back and away from Viktor. 

At those words and that movement, Viktor sees a cascade of emotions in Yuuri’s eyes. First, surprise. Then, shimmering, cold despair. He looks to Viktor, face open and vulnerable, lips parted slightly. There’s a silent plea in his expression --  _ don’t go _ , it says.  _ Viktor, I need you _ . 

It’s the first sign of possessiveness that Viktor has seen from him. 

_ There!  _ There is that competitive streak that he wants. The one that Viktor saw in that boy at the banquet, the one who challenged Yuri to a dance-off, the one who shamelessly dared his competitors into a variety of strange situations. 

Like the way he provoked Viktor into that dance they shared… the one that changed  _ everything _ . 

_ Finally, finally _ ,  _ you’re showing something! _

At the same time, Viktor shouldn’t break his promise to Yuri. To do so would exceed the limits of Viktor’s selfishness. But he also doesn’t want to lose this -- lose this small achievement in his and Yuuri’s relationship, this refusal from Yuuri to let Viktor go. He wants Yuuri to  _ need him _ . Wants Yuuri to  _ fight for him,  _ for his approval, just like he did at the banquet. 

But how?

He thinks, eyes closed and fingers pressed to his own lips. And then he remembers the short programs he had planned for himself, the ones that he had thrown away in favor of coaching Yuuri. Agape, Eros. Two arrangements and types of the same theme, two sides of the same coin. 

What if… Viktor told Yuuri to skate Eros? Eros, which was quite literally modeled after the Yuuri from the banquet. The sensual Yuuri who stole his heart and nearly his sanity as well. God, that would  _ kill _ Viktor. Who better to perform that routine than the person who had inspired it? What better way for Viktor to reclaim the boy from that night? 

And Yuri could take Agape. With words, Viktor would never be able to make Yuri understand how Viktor feels toward Yuuri… but maybe, through that routine, the boy could gain some semblance of empathy for Viktor’s situation. After all… agape was modeled after Viktor, after the emotions Viktor felt toward Yuuri. 

He devises a competition. Whoever wins will get whatever he wants from Viktor, he offers. But, wrong as it is, Viktor knows that it’s rigged from the very start. Yuuri will win. Once Yuri understands agape, he will realize that. Yuuri will win, just as he won Viktor’s attention and affection and desire. 

But he’ll let them both try their luck and their skills. 

In the end, Yuri demands Viktor as his coach. Yuuri’s request, however, is to win, and to eat pork cutlet bowls together. And for that goal, Yuuri promises to put all the Eros he can muster into the performance. And that’s exactly --  _ exactly _ \-- what Viktor wants to hear most. 

* * *

Viktor studies Yuuri closely, chipping away at the boy’s walls. He learns a lot, learns that Yuuri isn’t very outgoing, that Yuuri hates to lose, that closing himself off is just Yuuri’s way. They’re hard to accept -- those facts. Especially with what he saw at the banquet, which is quite the opposite. But slowly, he is coming to terms with them.

When Viktor skates Eros for him, he wonders if Yuuri  _ knows _ \-- if he can see that the source of the routine is Yuuri himself. Is it possible for someone to see himself in the mirror and entirely fail to notice? 

_ Can’t you see your own potential? _

“You have the skill to win,” Viktor tells him, standing opposite Yuuri in the center of the rink. “Why can’t you make it happen?”

The shame returns to his eyes, crushing in its intensity, extinguishing their light. “That’s probably because… I lack confidence…”

Viktor’s heart feels like elastic, stretched and stretched. Yuuri, beautiful Yuuri,  _ God  _ the things Viktor would do to see him smile--

“Right. My job is to make you feel confident in yourself.” 

For the first time in… days or weeks (he has lost track), Viktor is leaning in again.  _ Reaching _ ,  _ reaching _ . His thumb comes to softly brush along Yuuri’s lower lip, gaining enough leverage to point the boy’s face upward. Soft lips.  _ Yuuri’s _ lips. Viktor slides closer, their noses are practically touching now, eyes locked… Yuuri’s blush radiates heat off his skin -- it’s heady… that heat… This is further than Viktor reached before in the onsen, when Yuuri launched himself away. Progress.  _ Reaching, reaching.  _

“No one in the whole world knows your true Eros, Yuuri. It may be an alluring side of you that you yourself are unaware of.”

Yuuri is frozen, stiff, stunned by Viktor’s forwardness. And, of course, this isn’t quite what Viktor wants. This isn’t reciprocation. But could it be… if he pushes a bit further…?

“Can you show me what it is soon?” he requests, his voice low and breathy.  _ Reaching _ ,  _ reaching _ .  _ Want me as much as I want you.  _

But then the newly-nicknamed Yurio is screaming, whining, and fifteen-year-olds should be illegal, honestly--

This time, he is the first to stop reaching, even if his hand remains outstretched toward Yuuri. He has his responsibilities to Yurio, after all. And certainly the behavior he was displaying was unsuitable for such a public space, for the presence of this minor, in particular.

Viktor skates away, and Yuuri is left frozen to the spot. 

_ Progress _ . 

* * *

“Well, what’s agape to  _ you _ , then, Viktor?” Yurio demands furiously, their training having been interrupted by Viktor’s criticism. He just doesn’t understand what Viktor means when he says that Yurio lacks agape -- that his visible greed overwhelms any semblance of unconditional love he is trying to display.

In response to the question, Viktor appears flippant, tilting his head back and smiling like he’s mature and knows  _ exactly _ what he’s doing. Like love is something that he has memorized, front to back, side to side, something that he has seen so many times that identifying and channeling it is  _ easy,  _ so easy. 

It’s a lie, a big  _ fat  _ lie. The reality, however, is this: 

Viktor is in love, right now, for the first time in his life. The past crush that he had on Roman, Makkachin’s groomer  -- that was an infatuation that he had severed as easily as Roman had rejected him.

This is different. This is looking at Yuuri Katsuki once, randomly, in the middle of the day like it’s no big deal, and feeling something in his chest expand and  _ expand _ without explanation. This is Viktor shouldering rejection after rejection, flinch after flinch, because leaving is not an option. This is the way that Yuuri’s blush reminds him of watercolors on canvas, dripping and soft, more beautiful than any masterpiece, damn him. And his eyes, his  _ eyes-- _

This is over seven thousand kilometers, passed beneath Viktor’s feet like they’re nothing, hoping to close a gap that still feels enormous and  _ crushing _ . 

This is his skating, his career, being murdered slowly and sweetly by the admiration in Yuuri’s eyes and he’s  _ fine _ with it. 

This is agape. Agape, Yuuri has taught him, is reaching and  _ reaching _ even if you never reach anything at all. 

“It’s a feeling, of course, so I could never explain it in words.” 

* * *

Viktor isn’t sure what he was expecting. For Yuuri to pull him aside one day, push him against a wall, lustfully say: “ _ It’s you, Viktor. You’re my Eros _ ,” and kiss him madly in the way that Viktor knows Yuuri, being rather inexperienced romantically, probably doesn’t know how?

Well, he wasn’t expecting that. He’s learned too much about this Yuuri, the real Yuuri, to expect that. But he was  _ hoping _ . (Desperately, maybe). 

But Yuuri’s declaration that  _ Katsudon _ is his sexuality? That pork cutlet bowls form his only concept of eroticism? 

No, nope, no way -- Viktor thinks  _ the fuck _ not. And there are photos of Yuuri at the banquet, twisted half-naked around a stripper pole, that prove  _ that _ quite emphatically. 

Katsudon?  _ Seriously?  _

It is only with a somewhat defeated and incredulous voice that he supports the idea, supports Yuuri and his ridiculous notions of himself. Yuuri makes him do that. Why can’t Viktor just tell him off, tell him how  _ naive _ he’s being? 

Oh, right. Because it’s Yuuri. Yuuri, who is soft, so  _ soft _ ... who takes criticism like mortal wounds, who drowns himself in self-consciousness, who treats Viktor’s affection or blatant sexuality like it’s something otherworldly and beyond his comprehension. 

It’s  _ Yuuri _ , who treats Viktor’s approval of his ideas like it’s a blessing from God, who could crumble with one cruel word from Viktor. 

Gah, Viktor needs a drink. Or maybe a hundred. 

Katsudon…  _ honestly _ ....?

* * *

When Viktor tells Yuuri that it’s his turn to perform, he yelps in fear, covering his mouth as if to stifle a scream. There’s yet another blush spread across his cheeks, partially hidden in the shadows of the rink. They look almost purple, now, like this. Like he’s suffocating. Droplets of sweat form on his skin, marking his nervousness. God, he’s  _ so  _ nervous, and Viktor’s heart is down in his toes--

“Um… I-I’m going to become a super tasty pork cutlet bowl, so please watch me!” Yuuri stammers, like the words are difficult to force out of his mouth. 

And then Yuuri is throwing his arms around Viktor,  _ initiating _ their contact for the first time since the banquet. Viktor can’t even smile, can’t even breathe properly because it’s so much like that night, Yuuri’s arms around him, so tight and so  _ warm _ . The person he loves is actually  _ reciprocating _ for the first time in months, and Viktor doesn’t even know what to do--

“Promise!” Yuuri pleads helplessly, his hot breath ghosting by Viktor’s ear. His grip on Viktor is so tight--

_ Like I could ever look away from you _ , Viktor thinks almost sardonically, remembering Yuuri’s moves from the banquet. Remembering a similar request, almost, also given amidst an embrace. 

_ Be my coach, Viktooor! _

It hurts, even. It  _ hurts _ that Yuuri believes Viktor so easily distracted, so unconcerned with his skating or Yuuri in general. Viktor gave up his career, his home in Saint Petersburg, perhaps even his sanity to Yuuri and yet, Yuuri still doesn’t  _ realize--! _

This Yuuri… thinks himself so unworthy of  _ everything _ , and it’s  _ destroying _ Viktor. 

“Of course,” is what he replies, serious -- so  _ serious _ . “I love pork cutlet bowls.”

_ I love you,  _ is what he doesn’t say, because he knows Yuuri won’t believe him. Not yet. 

_ Reaching, reaching, fingers brushing the branch-- _

Yuuri glides to the center of the rink, the silver in his costume -- Viktor’s old costume -- catching the light and shimmering. A spotlight lands on him, blinding and illuminating. And then, the music starts with the strum of a guitar, elaborately played. Yuuri’s program begins with it. 

Fluidly, like he is part of the music, Yuuri’s arms and hands slide down his torso, accentuating it, then around and around his body they go -- as if to say,  _ “Here I am. Look at me _ .” He turns, strikes his hands down to his sides, and then snaps his head in Viktor’s direction. There’s an expression on his face that Viktor recognizes… one that has been taunting him for months--

_ His smile is sly and seductive, and his eyes… they’re surprisingly focused on Viktor, their intensity rendering him speechless. _

_ There _ is the boy from the banquet, alive and breathing again, standing before Viktor like he’s been  _ waiting _ for him. At the sudden transformation, Viktor can’t help but whistle. 

The program continues, chaotic and sexual and  _ bewitching _ . Yuuri does it so  _ beautifully _ , making the moves his own once more. No matter how Viktor would’ve performed the routine, it wouldn’t have been as accurate, as good as Yuuri’s. In it is the flamenco they shared, the tango, the near-kiss that left Viktor wanting and wanting and  _ wanting _ . The entire dance is a spell, enrapturing Viktor with the signature spins and step sequences that Yuuri is famous for, the illusion of perfection only broken by a botched quadruple salchow that Viktor would surely chide him for later--

Fluid. Mechanical. Luminous. Mysterious. Intimate. Unattainable. A thousand and one oxymorons to describe this Yuuri come to Viktor’s mind, twisting his mouth into a smile. 

* * *

“What do you want me to be to you?”

Viktor lists off possibilities. A father. A brother. A friend. A boyfriend, even. All of them, Yuuri rejects. Yuuri, with his knees pressed up to his lips. Yuuri, who doesn’t want to be thought of as weak, who is so scared of failure and disappointing others, who doesn’t want to let Viktor down. 

“I want you to stay who you are, Viktor!” 

Somehow, those words mean  _ more _ than if he had agreed to Viktor’s role as his boyfriend. They’re a caress. What does Yuuri demand from him, exactly? Guidance, criticism, support, sex? None of the above. He just  _ wants _ Viktor, wants him with him, admitted it right there, and somehow that’s enough. 

Yuuri is so soft, so undemanding, so good and starry-eyed and  _ God... _

They sit on a beach, cool, damp sand beneath them. Gulls screech in the distance, circling overhead in their quest for food. Waves crash so softly here -- so gently. It seems like everything in Hasetsu is soft and gentle… 

St. Petersburg was harsh, cold, deafening boat horns, angry storms, a place of extremes. You were either the best or the worst, praised or scolded as such. Here, everything rests in muted shades of gray. 

Even Yuuri rests decidedly between two sides of himself. The thrilling Yuuri he saw on the ice recently, or at the banquet, and the Yuuri he sees every morning, quiet and subdued. 

“I ignored you because I didn’t want you to see my shortcomings,” Yuuri admits. “I’ll make it up to you with my skating.”

Yuuri doesn’t have anything to make up to Viktor. Viktor will be himself. Himself, who is so hopelessly in love with Yuuri, who will do anything for Yuuri and be anything that Yuuri wants. What they share now is nebulous, fresh and confusing and a little surreal. Maybe that’s good. There are no boundaries besides what the other says is  _ okay _ , no standards that they are obligated to fulfill. 

Viktor extends his hand,  _ reaching, reaching _ . “Okay,” he agrees, fondness bright in his eyes. “I won’t let you off easy, then. That’s my way of showing my love.”

_ Love.  _ He said it, finally. 

Yuuri takes his hand. And a few days later, Viktor hears that word again.  _ Love _ . This time, when Yuuri tells him his musical theme. 

* * *

Slowly, surely, Yuuri grows more comfortable around him. There are small things. He lets Viktor correct his posture on the ice with light touches. He lets Viktor lean upon him, place a comforting arm around his shoulders. When they spend a day at the beach, Yuuri lets Viktor tease him -- even teases back -- and continues their antics until they wash off the sand and saltwater in the showers.

Small things. So small. 

Viktor is  _ reaching _ , but not nearly as far as he used to. 

There’s a text from Yurio one day, short and not-at-all sweet. 

“ _ Why don’t you just fuck him already and come back to St. Petersburg?” _ it reads. That’s all it says. Nothing else. 

Viktor doesn’t respond. 

He has new memories besides the banquet, now, and they replay in his mind just as constantly. Yuuri performing his free program, face consumed by emotion so heavy that Viktor can feel it crashing through the ceiling, crashing through the ice. The free program is the other side of Yuuri, the one that completes and contrasts with Eros. The innocent Yuuri, the one that scrambles and battles for success, the one that is soft and gentle and feels everything too strongly. Viktor sees so much beauty in that Yuuri too, so much overflowing potential. 

One night, Yuuri tries on his costume for the free program. His hair is falling into his eyes, far too messy for a figure skater with Yuuri’s grace. “Here,” Viktor says, nearly murmuring as he beckons Yuuri over. “I’ll fix it for you.” 

There’s something precious about the way that Yuuri fails to hesitate, coming to sit in front of Viktor, absolute trust and contentedness in his eyes. The room is dim, barely illuminated by the yellow light of a lamp. Kneeling, Viktor grabs a comb and gently winds it through Yuuri’s dark hair. The strands are still damp and warm from their recent bath in the hot springs. 

Yuuri leans into Viktor’s stomach, eyes closed. 

There are so many small things. But they add up to so much. 

* * *

Yuuri has an endless supply of positive qualities that he is determined to ignore in himself. In Viktor’s view,  _ that’s _ one of his few negative traits. His refusal to see his own worth. And his inability to acknowledge that refusal… can hurt people. Especially people who admire him. People like Viktor.

And people like Minami. 

It was only a day ago that Viktor was hugging Yuuri tightly, asking him to be as seductive as possible in his Eros routine. Yuuri still doesn’t react to hugs very well -- with the exception of the one he initiated in Hasetsu, he still stands stiffly, as frozen as the ice on which he skates. But Viktor was determined to show his love, encouragement, or  _ whatever _ Yuuri needed from him. Viktor is too affectionate, unable to deal with emotion in alternate ways. 

But now, seeing Yuuri ignore Minami and dismiss his veneration, Viktor is not feeling affectionate. He is… upset. Frustrated. Yuuri, and his goddamn head games again. He’s treating Minami the same way he treats Viktor, unaccepting of any  _ concept _ of admiration because he can’t believe he’s worthy. 

Frustrating, so frustrating. A person like this will never agree to be loved if they think it is  _ impossible _ for them to be loved. 

“I’m disappointed in you,” Viktor tells him honestly, slamming Yuuri’s skate guards against the side of the rink. He storms away. 

_ When will he realize? _

A few minutes later, when he hears Yuuri calling to Minami, wishing him good luck, Viktor can only hope he learned a lesson of some sort about himself. 

But it’s when Yuuri starts to skate, entirely ignoring Viktor’s instructions to reduce the number of quads, that Viktor realizes that Yuuri has learned a lot from him. Even more than he anticipated. 

* * *

Yuuri assumes that Viktor didn’t understand the press conference. After all, they mostly converse in English, so why would Viktor be able to comprehend the fast-spoken words on the news?

But Viktor has been practicing his Japanese for some time now. He understood enough. 

Nonetheless, he’ll wait until Yuuri is willing to tell him in person. 

_ Someday, the branches will reach back.  _

* * *

The small things get bigger. They both fall asleep on the plane to the Cup of China, Viktor’s head leaning against Yuuri’s shoulder. And when Viktor interrupts Yuuri’s interview, urging for them to both leave for dinner, his smile -- _Yuuri’s_ _smile_ \-- is fond. Yuuri pushes his hair back, seeming almost embarrassed, but not in a way that suggests he wants Viktor to stop. In a way that someone might react to a lover displaying a little _too_ _much_ public affection.

“Hey,” he protests teasingly, “I’m in the middle of an interview!”

When they leave for the restaurant, Viktor has his arm draped tightly around Yuuri’s shoulders. 

It’s  _ good _ . It feels good.

The night gets a little out of hand thanks to Viktor’s drinking habits. His memories of it are fogged over by a haze of alcohol, but he remembers clutching Yuuri tightly and removing his own clothes, illogically urging them both to take a dip in a hot spring. He figures that he could’ve acted worse -- in fact, this is, by far, not the  _ worst _ thing Viktor has done while drunk. The fact that he can recall so much is proof of that. 

Somewhere in the haze of his memories, he remembers Yuuri hauling him back to their hotel, tucking him into bed. He remembers mumbling something like “ _ The shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it?”  _ and seeing Yuuri’s confused expression. 

“ _ You’re really beautiful, you know,” _ he thinks he said also, leaving Yuuri blushing madly. 

But then sleep must have consumed him entirely. 

Today, he is hungover, headache pounding against his skull. The light feels like knives. But he is cognizant and focused, for Yuuri’s sake. As his short program approaches, Viktor watches Yuuri warm up, jogging and pacing endlessly. There’s nervousness and determination in his expression. 

It’s almost time for him to take to the ice. They stand at the edge of the rink now, a wall between them. Viktor leans over it, grasping Yuuri’s hand and rubbing it gently, trying to comfort and ease the anxiety rolling off of him. 

He’s almost laughing when he says, “The time to seduce me with women and pork cutlet bowls during your skate is over. You can fight with your own personal charm.”

Something shifts in Yuuri’s expression, eyes shimmering. Is he realizing, finally, that he, himself, is enough? 

“You can envision it just fine, can’t you?” 

Suddenly, the gap is closing,  _ closed _ , and Yuuri is grabbing Victor’s hand and intertwining their fingers. Their foreheads are pressed together, noses touching, eyes level and  _ locked _ . So  _ forward _ , Yuuri is being so forward -- 

Viktor can hardly breathe. 

Yuuri’s gaze is steady and determined, warm brown eyes flickering like flames. “Don’t ever,” he orders, “take your eyes off me.” 

And then Yuuri is skating away, arms outstretched to his sides. Viktor is left where he stands, numbly feeling at the spot where Yuuri’s forehead was touching his. His hand -- the one that was holding Yuuri’s -- is tingling lightly, like it has been recently electrocuted. 

_ He’s far too different today.  _

Yuuri licks his lips, begins to skate, and shoots Viktor his signature  _ Eros _ smile. His routine is flawless, beautiful,  _ perfect.  _ The boy from the banquet, returned again to win the hearts of the audience. 

Viktor is unabashedly turned on.

* * *

“Yuuri, did it feel that great?”

Viktor is hoping that he’ll say  _ yes _ , that he enjoyed skating like that. That he enjoyed skating  _ for Viktor, _ it even seemed like. 

Sweat is still beading at Yuuri’s brow, and his blush is flaring a bright red. For some reason, however, he is unsmiling, eyes trained on some point in the distance. “Well,” is what he replies, finally, “I was hoping that  _ everyone else _ felt great watching me.”

Viktor frowns. 

When Yuuri’s score is released, it is phenomenal -- a new personal best, and a spot on the podium nearly guaranteed. Viktor grabs hold of him, his own frown having disappeared in favor of an ecstatic smile. He embraces Yuuri tightly, hoping the contact might transfer his  _ excitement _ and  _ pride _ into the other man. Viktor is so,  _ so _ happy for him. Why won’t Yuuri smile?

Leaning close to Yuuri’s ear, he beams, “Of course they’d feel great watching a performance like that! You’re the best student.” 

Slowly, Yuuri smiles -- a quiet, modest smile -- and leans into Viktor’s arms. Their cheeks are nearly pressed together, Viktor is gripping him so firmly. 

Later, when they are watching Chris’s routine, Viktor  _ reaches _ his arms around Yuuri’s stomach, enclosing him in an embrace that will probably be rejected. To his surprise, Yuuri doesn’t push away, and doesn’t even stiffen. He lets Viktor lean his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder, standing with him contentedly.

A bubble of euphoria grows in Viktor’s chest. 

* * *

The next day starts a lot less euphorically.

Yuuri is crumbling, shaking,  _ exhausted _ . The pressure of the first place spot kept him awake all night, and his attempt to take a refreshing nap yielded no results (Viktor might be to blame for that… he did fall asleep  _ right _ on top of him). And further, their practice on the ice this morning resulted in a flubbed jump -- which was probably the ultimate injury to Yuuri’s failing confidence. 

Now, Viktor watches as Yuuri frantically scrambles around the room, breathing heavily, eyes wide and emphasized by the dark circles beneath them. At this point, he’s irritating the other people backstage with the compulsive way he switches off the televisions and mumbles to himself. It takes a few minutes for him to sit himself down, his head in between his hands -- like he is trying to screw it on his own neck straight. Viktor tries to maintain his faith in him. He’ll snap out of this, he’s sure. Yuuri is strong. They’ll be fine. 

Viktor watches him closely nonetheless, ensuring that he is alright. But even as he watches, it’s like he can see cracks forming in Yuuri’s composure, threatening to shatter him entirely. 

During Chris’s performance, Viktor realizes that it’s the other skaters that are driving him over the edge. With every clap that Chris receives, Yuuri shatters a bit more, his shoulders hunching and folding, folding,  _ folding _ in upon himself. 

That’s enough, Viktor thinks. He has to get Yuuri away from the  _ sounds _ . Somewhere, anywhere but here, anywhere he’ll be comfortable. 

There’s a parking garage on a lower floor, close enough for them to enter the rink in a timely manner. Cheers are barely audible from inside, and Viktor figures that it’s quiet enough. He keeps an arm around Yuuri, guiding him there as the boy stares numbly at some point in the distance. His breaths are shallow -- dangerously shallow -- and Viktor fears he is on the verge of some sort of panic attack. 

When the reach the garage, Yuuri asks about the standings, but Viktor doesn’t answer. He encourages Yuuri to continue his warm up, even his breathing. 

The cheers from Phichit’s routine are so loud, though. Too loud. Loud enough to cause Viktor to subconsciously glance upwards. When he looks back at Yuuri, his ear plugs are removed, and he is staring at the ceiling and its muffled roars with absolute  _ terror.  _ The pain and anxiousness in his expression strike Viktor’s lungs like shards of crystal. He lunges forward, covering Yuuri’s ears with his gloved hands.

“Don’t listen!” he yells.  _ You are so good _ .  _ You don’t even know how good. _

Now Yuuri is staring at him with fear, and Viktor is not sure if this is an improvement. 

He looks so tired. So afraid. Viktor wants to wrap him in his arms, hold him tightly in an attempt to absorb some of this anxiousness, but he fears removing his hands -- what the noises of the cheers for Leo might do to him. 

Eventually, he realizes that Leo’s routine must be drawing to a close. Yuuri realizes this as well, lightly pulling Viktor’s hands away. His expression is already so defeated, and Viktor doesn’t understand why. Usually, only young skaters compare themselves to their competitors like this, but Yuuri is so damn fragile, so good and soft and easily worried--

He needs to motivate him, somehow. How?

For a moment -- an impulsive one -- his more manipulative side considers offering an ultimatum. It’s not right. He doesn’t want to do it. But they’re both running out of time, and Yuuri is running out of confidence, so he will do what he must.

As Yuuri walks away from him, Viktor turns, stops him by calling his name. He knows that this is going to break Yuuri’s heart, maybe ruin what he has tried to achieve so far between them. He’ll portray himself as shallow and terrible, unloving and petty. But Yuuri might come out stronger for it. And Viktor is determined to be whatever Yuuri needs him to be. 

“If you mess up this free skate and miss the podium, I’ll take responsibility by resigning as your coach,” he says stoically, trying not to choke on the words. They burn. It’s like they  _ burn _ his throat. 

There is a moment in which nothing is said, no breath is breathed, no sound is heard. There is nothing but strained silence and Yuuri’s horrified, beautiful, wide eyes, staring at Viktor like his coach just committed a murder in front of him. 

And then the tears come, streaming rapidly from Yuuri’s eyes, clouding their warmth. He looks so hurt, dammit, so goddamn hurt, why did Viktor do that--

“Why would you say something like that, like you’re trying to test me?” Yuuri sobs, voice high and thick,  _ exploding  _ with pain and betrayal. And Viktor… Viktor feels like garbage, like trash, like the dirt under Yuuri’s shoes… what, what,  _ what _ was he thinking?

He’ll do anything to stop this. To stop his crying. To take back what he said. Yuuri isn’t Viktor, he can’t be influenced by punishment, what was he thinking--?

Viktor doesn’t know what to say. That it was a joke? That he was trying to manipulate Yuuri into a winning attitude? No, no,  _ wrong _ !

He is stammering, lost and desperate. “Uh, sorry, Yuuri. I wasn’t being serious--”

_ I swear I wasn’t, please-- _

But Yuuri is still sobbing, his shoulders shaking and his cheeks stained with fresh tears. All of him, so soft, so  _ broken _ . His voice is rambling, hysterical. “I’m used to being blamed for my own failures! But this time, I’m anxious because my mistakes would reflect on you, too! I’ve been wondering if you secretly want to quit--”

Viktor almost laughs, the notion is so ridiculous.  _ Leaving _ Yuuri? The idea seems impossible. He loves Yuuri. Loves him so much that seeing him cry is almost enough to throw Viktor -- the  _ always composed, _ five-time gold Grand Prix medallist Viktor Nikiforov -- into panicked hysterics as well. 

“Of course I don’t,” Viktor assures him, confident that it is the truth. But Yuuri interrupts him anyway, his voice hoarse and furious. “I know!” he screams, body racked by those sobs. 

Viktor feels like  _ he _ is suffocating now. He needs this to stop. He needs Yuuri to feel better, to be okay, to stop crying, and he doesn’t know what to do--

“Should I just kiss you or something?” he offers, the only solution his frantic mind can find. It’s what he wants to do, honestly. It’s something that would make Viktor feel better right now -- assuring Yuuri that he wants to stay, that he loves him…

But Yuuri reacts aversely to that as well. “No!” he refuses, startling Viktor with his anger and desperation. “Just have more faith than I do that I’ll win! You don’t have to say anything! Just stand by me!” 

Viktor’s intake of breath is sharp, his eyes widening. Now, he realizes. He realizes that he should’ve known better. Yuuri told him what he needed from the start, on that beach in Hasetsu.

* * *

 

As a skater, Viktor used to pride himself on his ability to surprise people. But Yuuri is far more surprising than he will ever be, stunning in every action he takes, in every emotion he feels. Each one, so unexpected that it takes Viktor off guard, steals a bit of his heart even more. 

The free program was  _ so _ good -- so much better than he expected it to be after their fight. There were mistakes, of course, but the _ quad flip _ … at the  _ end _ of the program? Yuuri and Viktor had never even  _ discussed _ something like that, but Yuuri had attempted it anyway, nearly nailed it, even. 

Yuuri ends the routine with his left leg behind his right, arm outstretched to Viktor in what, to him, seems to be a sign of forgiveness. His chest heaves from the exertion of the performance, face glistening with sweat, and his sparkling eyes are trained on Viktor, searching him for approval. 

Viktor’s face is burning, a smile overwhelming him. His pride right now is almost a physical force, like it could knock him off his feet. Desperately, he tries to cover his face with his hands, hide his lost composure from those ever-present, ever-intrusive cameras. But dammit… he’s so proud… he wants Yuuri to know how proud he is, how much he  _ loved  _ that performance and the risk he took, how much he loves Yuuri in general…

And then Viktor is running, running,  _ running _ around the circumference of the rink, trying to meet Yuuri at the kiss and cry as fast as possible. Yuuri starts to speed there too, gliding across the ice, wearing a smile so wide that Viktor is quite certain that he has never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

They’re a few feet away now, three, two, one… and Viktor just can’t fucking take it anymore because  _ holy hell _ Yuuri is  _ beautiful _ . 

It happens quickly. He lunges forward, launching himself into Yuuri’s outstretched arms, which were awaiting a hug. But this isn’t that. Not quite. Because Viktor is leaning in, crashing his mouth on Yuuri’s, clutching him close for a kiss. A kiss that tastes like sweat, chapstick,  _ Yuuri _ , and pretty much everything that Viktor dreamed about over the last few months. 

_ Reaching...reaching...reached! _

They fall backward onto the cold, hard ice, probably bruising themselves all over. But Viktor doesn’t care. By the time they reach the ground, they are merely hugging, and Viktor detaches himself slightly, trying to gauge Yuuri’s reaction by looking at his face. Stunned is the only accurate descriptor of his expression, brown eyes wide and ablaze with confusion. 

Viktor is still a little out of breath when he admits, “This was the only thing I could think of to surprise you more than you’ve surprised me.” 

For a moment, Yuuri still looks stunned, and Viktor braces himself. What if he didn’t like it? What if this was the decision that ruins it all, for both of them?

But then Yuuri’s eyelids lower halfway down, his cheeks flare in another blush, and his mouth spreads into a tender smile. Slightly, his head tips toward Viktor’s, as if inviting him in for another kiss. Viktor resists the urge with immense difficulty. They’re on camera, after all. Not that it mattered a few seconds ago. 

“Really?” is all that Yuuri says in response, gazing at Viktor lovingly. Yes,  _ lovingly _ . That’s the only way to describe the look on his face, and Viktor is so damn grateful for that. 

* * *

That night, as the TV in the hotel drones mindlessly, Viktor finds himself completely unable to concentrate on it. Other things are occupying his thoughts too much. For example... even though it is muffled by the tightly closed bathroom door, the sound of Yuuri’s shower -- the one that has probably continued for over an hour, he suspects -- seems to be washing him away, drowning him. The TV sounds like white noise in comparison, empty and meaningless.

They’ve hardly talked since their kiss. And since then, Yuuri’s expression has been unreadable, uninterpretable. For a moment, it was loving. Now it is something else. Closed off, guarded. Viktor wants to know what he is thinking, what he is  _ feeling _ . 

But that, of course, is a mystery to him, as mysterious to him as what the newswoman on the TV is trying to say, God knows Viktor can’t understand Mandarin--

The shower suddenly squeaks off, and finally, Yuuri emerges from the bathroom amidst waves of thick steam. It clings determinedly to his glasses, fogging them up in a grey screen of water droplets, and Viktor watches as he fumbles to clean them on his shirt. Currently, Yuuri is clad in his usual sleep clothes -- a sweatshirt and sweatpants -- his body like a stark silhouette against the brightly illuminated bathroom. The hotel room is very dark… Viktor didn’t turn on any lights…

When the glasses are back on his face, Yuuri catches Viktor staring at him, stares back, and Viktor flits his gaze away. His eyes are now trained purposefully on the television. 

But Viktor can’t even  _ pretend _ to ignore when the bed -- the bed on which Viktor lies in his false attempt to watch TV -- dips lower in response to added weight. Yuuri’s weight. 

Viktor turns his head, seeing that Yuuri has taken a seat along the edge of the mattress, his eyes focused on Viktor’s face with an alarming, almost desperate intensity. Even in the low light of the bedroom, they sparkle. They  _ always _ sparkle, dammit. 

“Viktor,” he begins, ever so softly. “I think we should…”

“Talk?” Viktor finishes for him, perhaps too quickly, leaning toward him. Yuuri’s nod is small and slow. Viktor inhales...exhales hugely… braces himself. 

But they are both silent. Silent, despite Yuuri’s request to  _ talk _ . Another oxymoron. But Viktor isn’t sure whether Yuuri wants to say something first, which is why he’s holding himself back. After all, Yuuri initiated the request, which implies that he has something he wants to say, but then again, Viktor was the one who finished the sentence, so should Viktor--

Yuuri clears his throat. “That thing… that thing that happened today, on the ice--”

“The kiss, you mean?” Viktor says, almost defensively.  _ Of course, _ that was a kiss. What else could it have been?

Yuuri pauses at the interruption, his lips parting slightly. He’s giving off the distinct impression that he is trying to defuse a bomb. “Yes,” he replies, carefully. “The kiss…”

He trails off. It drives Viktor  _ crazy _ . 

“What about it?” Viktor asks gently, urging Yuuri to continue. He leans a bit closer, but not too close. Not close enough to scare him off in confusion. It seems like Viktor is always doing something like this, coaxing Yuuri out of his shell, waiting for a sign of  _ something _ from him.  _ Reaching, reaching. _

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri apologizes in a heavy voice, much to Viktor’s incredulity. “I’m sorry if I’m being stupid… I just… I don’t think I understand what it means. Or maybe I don’t think it means what  _ you _ think it means. I just… I don’t know--”

He tries to cover his face in shame, hiding his blush and his eyes, the latter of which quickly becoming wet. Viktor is stunned yet again. Even when he thinks he is being crystal clear in how he feels, Yuuri still finds something to worry about -- something to fuel his self-doubt. 

Viktor slides closer now, places his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, which are trembling slightly. “Yuuri,” he says, holding the other man square between his arms. “Yuuri, please look at me.”

He does, slowly. His cheeks are blazing red, eyes nervous. Every part of him, nervous.  _ Why _ ? Viktor isn’t supposed to make him nervous. Viktor is supposed to make him feel comfortable, feel loved, feel  _ confident _ …

“Yuuri, what do  _ you _ think that kiss meant to me?” 

Yuuri’s lips are trembling, still parted slightly. Finally, he meets Viktor’s gaze completely, his features drawn. “I think… I think that you’re  _ you _ … that you have strange ways of motivating me, and that you do things that normal people maybe wouldn’t--”

The words douse Viktor’s heart in frozen water. Horrified, he drops his hands from Yuuri’s shoulders, pressing his mouth into a thin line. “I see,” Viktor murmurs, utterly dejected. “If that was so  _ abnormal,  _ I’ll make sure to never do it again--”

“No!” Yuuri protests desperately. “That’s not what I meant! It’s just…”

“Just what?” Viktor snaps. 

“Y-you’re always very… affectionate,” Yuuri points out, his voice much more cautious now. “And… it’s grown very  _ difficult _ for me to tell whether or not you think of me as a student, with all the things that you do… or as something  _ more _ .”

Expression softening and anger dissipating, Viktor places his fingers underneath Yuuri’s chin. The other man gasps softly at the contact.  

“How about we try a different question?” Viktor suggests, examining Yuuri’s face, the glint of water droplets at the corners of his eyes. “What did _you_ _want_ the kiss to mean, Yuuri?”

He furrows his brow. “What I  _ want _ won’t change whether you--”

“It might,” Viktor interrupts sternly. “Trust me. It might.”

Viktor will try to be whatever Yuuri needs him to be. That is something that he decided long ago. 

Yuuri falls silent in contemplation, his eyes focused on the duvet. Viktor waits. He’s not impatient now. He’ll wait forever, if he has to. He’s waited so long already. 

“I-I wanted it to mean that you  _ felt _ something for me.”

“A coach can feel all sorts of things for his or her student,” Viktor remarks idly, leaning ever closer to Yuuri. “What,  _ exactly _ , do you want me to feel for you?”

Yuuri’s too captivated by the intensity of Viktor’s stare. He just sits there, silent, breath pouring evenly from his mouth and nostrils. Viktor watches as he gulps, sees the bob in his Adam's apple. 

“Love, maybe?” Viktor clarifies for him.

Silence. Silence, save for the buzz of the television, still completely unintelligible to Viktor’s ears. 

And then, finally, Yuuri is nodding, a tiny tip of his head. It grows stronger, more decisive -- a strong nod, a strong agreement. “Yes,” he admits to Viktor, still slightly embarrassed. “I want you to be in love with me.” 

And it seems that, yet again, Yuuri only wants Viktor to be himself. 

Smiling broadly, Viktor reaches out and cups Yuuri’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “That’s good,” he says. “Because that’s what the kiss meant. That I’m in love with you.”

This time, Viktor doesn’t even have to  _ reach _ . Yuuri throws his arms around him, pulls him close, tangling fingers in Viktor’s hair. Their lips meet somewhere in the middle, breath hot on each other’s mouths, eyes shut tight. And Viktor… Viktor’s  _ floating _ , floating so  _ high _ he might as well be on the airplane home already. 

Yuuri pulls away first, but Viktor isn’t prepared to let him get away that easily -- to let the branch recede that fast. He presses another kiss to Yuuri’s lips, then another, and another -- he’ll keep going all night if Yuuri will let him. Yuuri twists his hands into Viktor’s pajama shirt, sinking into each kiss further. His glasses are digging into the bridge of Viktor’s nose, but Viktor doesn’t think of it much. There are much more important sensations to consider. 

That night, Yuuri falls asleep tucked into Viktor’s side, breathing even and heavy, the twin bed beside them empty and untouched. It’s a little cramped, but Viktor doesn’t mind. He spends too much of the night staring at Yuuri, thinking about how untroubled he seems while he sleeps, how beautiful he is, how  _ lucky _ Viktor is…


	2. Finding Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor is determined to do a lot of things. He's determined to coach a figure skating medallist. He's determined to perfect the pair skate for the gala. And lastly, he's determined to stay close to Katsuki Yuuri -- no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is considerably fluffier and angstier than the last chapter (another oxymoron?). A lot of the events I write aren't necessarily canon either, but they're canon compliant. Enjoy!

They arrive in Moscow a little earlier than they need to, and Viktor takes advantage of the opportunity to sightsee with Yuuri. Yuuri, whose Russian is still very much a work in progress. He stares at so many signs, so many storefronts in wonderment, asking Viktor what they mean and how to say them. Yuuri stumbles over pronunciations, sporting an obvious accent that Viktor finds too adorable to handle. Sometimes Viktor will interrupt him mid-word with a kiss -- to correct the words he mispronounces, of course.  

They head to the ice rink in the Red Square. At first, they remain subtle, gliding over the ice with ease, holding hands like any other couple -- _yes,_ they’re a couple now -- on a date. But then they decide, _“Why not?”_ and proceed to do tricks on the ice, jumps and spins and combinations. A little crowd gathers to watch them with awe, considering that their skills surpass those of so many, if not all, of the people around them.

Playfully, they attempt a lift -- like Viktor always sees the pair skaters do. He’s almost surprised by how smoothly it goes. And later, when they have left the ice, he hears Yuuri teasingly suggest, “Maybe we should try it. Pair skating, I mean.” His breath mists in the cold air.

Viktor certainly wouldn’t be opposed. In fact, he grabs Yuuri’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Tell you what… make it to the Grand Prix, and we’ll pair skate in the gala.”

His blush deepens. “I was joking, Viktor. You don’t think they’d really let us--”

“I’ll take care of it. All _you_ have to do is make it to the finals.”

His eyebrow is raised, skeptical, but Yuuri doesn’t comment on the matter further. Instead, he sees a cart that sells hot chocolate and points to it. Together, they head toward it, and Viktor keeps his arm snugly wrapped around Yuuri’s shoulders while they walk.

Yuuri tells him that he likes Russia. Internally, Viktor wonders if he likes it enough to stay there with him. But Hasetsu feels like home to Viktor now too, so really, he doesn’t even know where he wants to go. Wherever Yuuri goes, he assumes.

* * *

 

The rest of the Rostelecom cup was a disaster. Plain and simple. Several of the most horrific hours of Viktor’s life, worrying about Makkachin, worrying about Yuuri, worrying about the turbulence on his flight because _holy shit_ it was rough.

But it passes, like most terrible things eventually do. And eventually, Yuuri is back in his arms, holding him tightly, Makkachin pacing, healthy, at their sides.  

At the airport, Yuuri asks Viktor to take care of him until he retires, his eyes sparkling with determination. Like he’s determined to keep _Viktor_ , of all things, like Viktor isn’t already determined to stay. _It sounds like a marriage proposal_ , and he wishes that it was. Viktor wishes to stay with him _forever_ and says as much, kissing Yuuri’s ring finger to indicate the point further.

Yuuri buries his face into Viktor’s shoulder, crying slightly. Viktor holds him, doesn’t let go, and Yuuri doesn’t pull away.

* * *

 

The ice can be painful. Hard and unforgiving. But with the duet version of _Stay Close to Me_ blaring through Ice Castle Hasetsu’s speakers, and Yuuri skating by his side… well, it barely feels that way at all.

They are practicing their routine for the gala exhibition. Viktor can admit, trying the lift they just did -- it was risky, very risky. Risky enough that Viktor should have been more supportive of Yuuri’s weight when it was thrown at him in the way that pair skates require. But in his distraction, he causes them both to topple to the ice, smacking themselves against its biting, rock-hard surface.

A few seconds later, they find themselves in a tangle of limbs, Yuuri lying on top of him, hair mussed and blue-framed glasses askew. Viktor’s back is crushing against the ice, aching slightly. Bruised, perhaps. But the back of his head missed any sort of injury, luckily, which means that he shouldn’t have to worry about a concussion.

Yuuri’s eyes are alight with concern. “Are you alright?” he asks, scrutinizing Viktor’s face closely. Very closely. His nose nearly brushes Viktor’s.

Viktor smiles. “I’m afraid not, Yuuri,” he says in mock horror. “I think I’ve fallen for you.”

He leans upwards for a kiss, puckering his lips. With an exasperated snort, Yuuri holds his hand over his mouth, as if to block his advance. “Maybe you haven’t injured yourself enough,” he replies sardonically.

“Yuuri!” Viktor cries indignantly from beneath his palm.

“You better not have fallen _just_ to get me on top of you.”

“You think so little of me,” Viktor complains, mumbling against his hand. “But it was a welcome coincidence, I’ll admit.”

“Oh, fine.” Yuuri _finally_ removes his hand from the path of Viktor’s mouth, leaning down to place a quick kiss on his lips _._ “That was for cushioning my fall. Thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

* * *

 

Barcelona becomes a place of many revelations. First, there was the revelation that Viktor really, truly, wanted to spend his life with Yuuri… and more importantly, that Yuuri returned the sentiment. Standing in front of the church -- that’s where they made that promise -- like something out of some sappy romance movie, or a dream. Yuuri, blushing wildly, cheeks colored like red wine, eyes perfectly reflecting the lights of _la Sagrada Familia._ And there were the rings too, golden and exchanged, resting comfortably on each other’s fingers as the angelic notes of a nearby choir ascended into the heavens.

Dreamlike. Surreal.  

Viktor has learned how to speak Yuuri’s language over the last few months -- and no, he’s not referring to Japanese. Even though he did not explicitly say the words “marry me,” Viktor knew what Yuuri meant. He _knew_. It’s a promise, placed on his right ring finger in proper Russian tradition, sworn in front of a church, of all places. There are few other ways to interpret that.

He knows Yuuri. He knows that Yuuri always takes time to come to terms with what he wants, with what he wants to say, with what he wants to do. His expressions of emotion are always reluctant, subdued, undemanding -- just like the proposal was. Despite what Viktor had perceived at the banquet all those months ago, he now realizes just how _afraid_ of being forward Yuuri is, how slow he is to admit how he feels to Viktor, to others, to _himself_ , even.

He’s damn terrified of asking too much of Viktor, of pushing Viktor over the edge, of not being _good enough_ for Viktor. And Viktor endlessly works to quell those fears. Will work until the day he dies, if he has to.

Perhaps it’s only been months, whereas most engagements occur after the course of many years. But Viktor has never felt anything like this -- like what he feels for Yuuri -- and probably never will again. He knows it’s something precious, something different, something worth keeping. Something worth the rest of Viktor’s life and everything after that, whatever that might be. A skating career expires in the blink of an eye, and Viktor wants this to last long beyond that. He wants _Yuuri_ to last long beyond that. He wants to know that when he has nothing -- no usable muscles left in his knees, no grace in his step, no silver hair left on his head -- that Yuuri will be by his side, still eliciting passion from him.

He’ll marry Yuuri. Happily, he’ll do it, so long as Yuuri will have him.

The second revelation is almost as life-changing, but perhaps not in a good way.

They’re eating dinner at a restaurant, surrounded by Yuuri’s competitors, Minako, and Mari. Barcelona’s nighttime lights glitter around them invitingly, romantically, and food steams in plates on the table. Viktor sits, simply listening to the sound of Yuuri’s voice, a smile twisting his lips. Even now he can feel the ring on his own finger, maybe even feel the smile on Yuuri’s face as he recounts his experiences from last year’s Final. Yuuri has never before smiled when talking about _that_ particular event, and it’s an interesting transformation -- to see him do it now.

“At last year’s final, I was always by myself, even at the banquet,” Yuuri recalls, just as Viktor takes a sip of his beer. “I couldn’t even talk to Viktor!”

_Couldn’t even talk to--?_

What.

 _What_?

There is a moment, one where Viktor feels distinctly like he is caught in an earthquake, but one that only _he_ can feel. He can’t even help the way that his drink spews out of his mouth in utter shock, making a mess everywhere. A mess that he can’t even find the will to properly worry about.

Slamming his cup on the table, Viktor demands: “Yuuri, you don’t remember?”

“What?” Yuuri seems genuinely and completely ignorant to what Viktor refers. He is clutching his glass with both hands, appearing almost defensive as a result of Viktor’s aggressively asked question.

He really…?

He really _doesn’t_ remember. He must have been blackout drunk.

This whole time, blackout drunk. No memories of that night. None.

Oh God.

Oh _God._

As their dinner companions attempt to explain Yuuri’s drunken antics at last year’s banquet, Viktor sits with his hand gripping the handle of his beer mug, knuckles white with force.

This changes everything. _Literally everything_ . All this time, he thought he was merely accepting Yuuri’s invitation to be his coach and visit Hasetsu, or attempting to rekindle a spark that they _both_ experienced months ago. But no… _nope_. That was not the case at all.

Instead, in Yuuri’s view, Viktor simply showed up in Japan, _buck naked and ready to fuck_ , and demanded to be Yuuri’s coach. All of Viktor’s flirting… all of his blatant affection and sexuality… it must have been so damn confusing to someone like Yuuri, someone whose sexuality only bleeds through under the influence of alcohol or on the ice.

Yuuri, who hadn’t _remembered_ that he had danced with and grinded on Viktor. Yuuri, who hadn’t _remembered_ the night that Viktor fell in love with him. Yuuri, who probably hadn’t even _remembered_ Viktor’s promise to stop by Yuuri’s hotel the morning after the banquet, coffees in hand.

Viktor had practically assaulted him with affection, pursued him so determinedly and forwardly that Yuuri must’ve felt whiplashed by Viktor’s actions. Frankly, it’s a miracle that Yuuri eventually fell for him at all, rather than established a restraining order for him.

God, Viktor is an _asshole_ . He never even _considered…_ the banquet was so memorable for him that Viktor never even _considered_ that Yuuri was too drunk, too wasted to recall anything but a terrifying blankness in the place of those hours of dancing.

He finds himself staring at Yuuri’s face as he realizes what occurred. The pole-dancing, especially, seems to throw him over the edge of soul-crushing embarrassment. Viktor can relate.

* * *

 

“Let’s end this.”

The words ring in Viktor’s ears like a funeral dirge, mournful and sacrificing.

Yuuri wants to retire. He wants to retire in the hope of sending Viktor back to Russia, back to skating. He tells Viktor that he’s thankful -- thankful for his guidance, thankful for Viktor’s coaching, thankful for the opportunity to compete in the Grand Prix finals.

“You’ve done more than enough for me,” he says, like Viktor should _stop_ , like what Viktor’s been giving him has been nothing more than a few favors that Yuuri doesn’t think he deserves. Like anything Viktor does for Yuuri could ever be enough, could ever _feel_ like enough.

“ _Thank you for being my coach_ .” That’s what he says. Like it’s _nothing_ . Like Viktor should be okay with that, pleased, even. Just bowing his head, so, so thankful for Viktor’s temporary attention, like Viktor ever considered his attention on Yuuri _temporary_.

In Yuuri’s words, there is the underlying assumption that Viktor will no longer fulfill the role of coach. Further, there is the underlying assumption that Yuuri hasn’t considered Viktor anything _more_ than a coach.

A _coach_. Just a goddamn coach.

Damn him.

_What the fuck are you even saying?_

But he knows, of course. He knows Yuuri too well, knows what he means. Yuuri still thinks himself so unworthy of everything, of Viktor, of their relationship. His anxiety is at the root of it all. Filling him with doubts -- doubts that force him to make decisions that he thinks are selfless, but really are not.

With Viktor’s short program record broken by Yurio, and with Yuuri’s flubbed quad flip, Yuuri must now believe that he is letting Viktor down. Holding him back. Slowly killing his career. The promise that they shared -- the one contained in their matching rings -- Yuuri must consider it null and void, the Grand Prix already as good as lost, his chance slipping through his fingers. He thinks the engagement was _conditional_. Conditional on Yuuri winning gold at this Grand Prix final, which he is now certain he will not do.

Above all, Yuuri thinks that he is doing what is _best_ for Viktor. And objectively, it _is_ what’s best for him. For his career. Now, Viktor can return to skating, make his comeback without even worrying about coaching, about his former student, about a boyfriend in Hasetsu that he loves so _much_ . He’ll be so focused, so damn focused on the things he doesn’t even _want_ to focus on anymore--

Why can’t they talk about this? What can Viktor do to make him _understand_? The ice is cold and hard and meaningless without Yuuri, it has been for years now. Yuuri makes skating beautiful, makes it worthwhile. Hasn’t Viktor already said this? In the airport, he said that he wished that Yuuri would never retire, that he could take care of Yuuri forever. But Yuuri is still so damn clueless…

The last few years left Viktor disillusioned as a skater. At the top of the world unopposed --  everything within his grasp, and yet nothing within his grasp at all. The gold medals, the fame, the reputation… they came so easily to him, so easily that, at some point, it was like he hardly had to work for them. A genius, they called him. Skating was his art, and he devoted himself to it entirely. But every victory chipped away at its own value. How many times can a person win the same prize? How much can a person devote themselves to a goal they had achieved long ago?

It was only when Viktor found Yuuri that he started to pursue new, more worthwhile goals. Yuuri gave him something to chase. At first, it was the boy from the banquet, elusive, a mystery to be solved. But then he met the other Yuuri -- the everyday Yuuri. The Yuuri who was bogged down by self-doubt but overflowing with potential, the Yuuri who danced like music notes incarnate, the Yuuri who was sweet and soft and _good_ in every sense. This Yuuri was precious, something that could be nurtured, something that Viktor _wanted_ to nurture. Viktor watched Yuuri bloom before his eyes into a remarkably talented skater -- one that could probably surpass him someday. Perhaps surpass him tomorrow, even.

And then there were other goals. The kind that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of pursuing. His goal to make Yuuri smile, always. His goal to spend the rest of his life with Yuuri. His goal to make Yuuri happy. His goal to be a person _beyond_ Viktor Nikiforov, the skater. Until Yuuri, Viktor had never been _somebody_ to anybody except for Makkachin, and now, Yuuri wants to send him right back to the way he was--

It isn’t…

It isn’t _fair._ This isn’t what he wants…

“Viktor?” he hears Yuuri nearly gasp, his voice rife with surprise. With a start, Viktor recognizes the cause of such of reaction. Viktor is crying, eyes wet, droplets dripping onto the floor in shiny little pools. His contemplation of Yuuri’s words had absorbed him so entirely… he hadn’t even felt these tears until now. Viktor almost never cries, after all. But here they are nonetheless, betraying his frustration.

Viktor Nikiforov, a man born from the ice, is melting.

“Damn,” Viktor says, blinking the tears away and refusing to meet Yuuri’s shocked eyes. “I didn’t expect Katsuki Yuuri to be such a selfish human being.”

Yuuri doesn’t miss a beat -- he’s so dead-set in this… in this _resolution_ to let Viktor go. But Viktor doesn’t _want_ to go. He doesn’t want to skate without Yuuri. He doesn’t even want to _look_ at an ice rink unless Yuuri is by his side…

“Right. I made this selfish decision on my own. I’m retiring.”

Decisive. So damn decisive and _wrong_.

The tears keep falling. Viktor doesn’t even attempt to stifle them now, there’s no point. No point.

A few moments later, he feels several strands of his hair pushed away from his face. There are warm fingers near his forehead -- Yuuri’s fingers -- and Yuuri’s brown eyes trained on his face. His expression is unreadable, almost clinical. Viktor would think he was trying to be comforting, but then again, his look doesn’t suggest that at all.

“Yuuri, what are you doing?” he demands, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” he flounders. “I’m just… surprised to see you cry.”

 _Oh good_ , Viktor thinks sarcastically. At least he can surprise Yuuri one last time. How nice for him. To be so flippant about something like this, something that is tearing Viktor apart. God… Viktor wants to be comforted, and Yuuri refuses to do even _that._

Viktor smacks Yuuri’s hand away, out of his hair. “I’m mad, okay?” he snarls.

Yuuri bristles, becomes defensive as he leans back on the hotel room bed. “You’re the one who said that it was only until the Grand Prix Final!”

 _I never said that!_ Viktor wants to shout. He promised to _get_ Yuuri to the Grand Prix Final, promised to take care of Yuuri so long as he wanted Viktor to do so. But Yuuri, _stupid_ Yuuri, has twisted his words and intentions so much. Or maybe Viktor doesn’t know him at all. Maybe Yuuri feels like he has grown enough to _not need_ Viktor from this point forward.

“I thought you needed my help more,” Viktor murmurs, dejected.

Yuuri avoids that comment entirely, avoids Viktor’s eyes. Instead, he asks, “Aren’t you going to make a comeback? You don’t have to worry about me--”

But, _fuck it,_ Viktor _wants_ to worry about him, _wants_ to be with him, and it’s Viktor’s decision, _fuck_ , Viktor’s choice whether or not he gets to leave and Yuuri is taking that away from him--

“How can you ask me to return to the ice while saying you’re retiring?” Viktor demands, his voice barely suppressed from becoming a _scream._ He’s hardly himself, frantic and angry. Desperate for Yuuri to understand that this is _hypocrisy_ . That this isn’t _fair._

Yuuri still won’t look at him, and Viktor is unable to control himself as he seizes Yuuri’s shoulder a bit too aggressively, trying to secure Yuuri’s attention. It works. Yuuri’s eyes flit up to meet his. They’re wide, shocked, and pained.

Viktor won’t accept this. He _won’t_. Both hands on Yuuri’s shoulders now, he yanks Yuuri forward, catching his lips in a rough and heavy kiss, one slightly poisoned by the taste of Viktor’s tears. At first, Yuuri is stiff and non-reciprocating, too caught off guard. But he slowly melts into it, eyelids lowering, arms entwining around the back of Viktor’s neck.

Good, Viktor thinks. _Good._

A minute later, Viktor pulls away, but only barely. Their lips detach with a smack, and he keeps their foreheads pressed together, faces millimeters apart. Yuuri is breathing heavily, eyes closed, shoulders still held in Viktor’s grasp.

“Reconsider,” Viktor exhales into Yuuri’s mouth, trying to be convincing. It’s unbelievable. After all this time, Viktor finds himself _reaching_ again. _Reaching, reaching_.

And Yuuri doesn’t say anything in response. Doesn’t reach back.

So Viktor dives in again, tugging Yuuri by the shirt this time. He tangles his hands in the fabric, insistently presses his lips against Yuuri’s, mouth moving and tugging like it’s uttering a prayer, like it’s _begging_.

Another brief pause, a moment for Viktor to catch his breath. “Reconsider,” he repeats.

“Viktor--”

Tipping Yuuri’s chin up, angling Yuuri’s mouth toward his, Viktor unleashes another kiss, and then, another meaningful pause.

“Yuuri, I _need you_ to reconsider--”

“Viktor, stop -- this isn’t going to make me change my mind,” Yuuri replies finally, voice cracking slightly. He gently pushes Viktor away and stands, stalking off to the other bed. The one that was supposed to be Viktor’s. But there’s not very far for him to run from Viktor -- the beds are pushed tightly together. It’s a habit they have developed by now.

“Why not?” Viktor demands. “What can I do, then? To make you change it?”

“ _Why not?_ ” Yuuri repeats, almost incredulous. “Because it’s not right! I saw you at the Grand Prix today. I saw the way you watched Yurio, watched your legacy get torn down. You were upset.”

“You’re not in my head, Yuuri,” Viktor snaps almost petulantly. “You can’t pretend _to know_ what I was feeling.”

“Viktor, you already gave up so much of your skating career for me--”

“And I did it _gladly--”_

“But you’re one hundred times the skater that I will _ever_ be. So it’s time for me to return the favor -- I’m ending this, retiring, so that the world can have you back. So that you can return to where you belong -- on the ice, skating for Russia.”

“I _belong_ with you--”

“Stop it! Stop saying things like that!” Yuuri yells, furious, tears now pushing, _squeezing_ out of his eyes as well. “You might think that being with me is what’s best for you, but it _can’t_ be, Viktor.” He sighs shakily. “I _mean…_ just look at me, Viktor. _Look at me._ After all the work we did, I couldn’t even land your quad flip. I’m just going to keep letting you down. I’m never going to be _you_ , Viktor.”

“I don’t want you to be me. And not being your coach doesn’t mean that I’ll necessarily go back to skating, you know,” Viktor points out. “This is _stupid_. You can’t decide this for me.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s what I want. I want you to go back to skating. And I want to retire.”

“And I want to stay close to you. So where, exactly, is _my_ say in this, Yuuri?”

For several minutes, there is nothing but silence. Yuuri is contemplative, staring at Viktor with moist and weary eyes. Heavy. The question weighs _so_ _heavily_ on the air, crushing them with its force. And the silence worsens the anger still burning in the pit of Viktor’s stomach, expands the disbelief he holds at how quickly everything unraveled for them.

“Fine,” Yuuri ultimately concedes, but not in the way that Viktor necessarily wants. “We’ll reach a decision after the final. After that… I think our futures will be a lot clearer. Don’t you?”

Viktor stiffens at the plurality. _Until now, I thought you were my future._

* * *

 

While Yuuri skates his free program in the Grand Prix Final, Viktor realizes a few things.

The first is that, despite what Yuuri thought last night, Yuuri will probably win gold, maybe even break a world record. That Yuuri’s program is perfect, flawless, _incredible_ . Each quad, immaculately executed -- and there are four of them. _Four_ . Enough to even cause someone like _Viktor_ trouble.

And for the first time in years… Viktor is seeing a routine that he -- the competitor in him -- wants to skate, wants to challenge and improve upon.

Yuuri is good. _So_ _good_. Good enough that, if Viktor _does_ return to skating, both Yuuri and Yurio would provide _hellish_ competition. The exciting kind that Viktor hasn’t experienced in half a decade. Until now, he has been content as a coach, training Yuuri and Yurio, watching both skaters fill his shoes. But suddenly… Viktor realizes that his shoes aren’t _big enough_. Yuuri and Yurio are already better than he was -- than he _is_. They could _crush_ his legacy.

Competing against these other skaters? It won’t be enough for them. Just like it wasn’t enough for Viktor, when he held those world records. World records that he, unexpectedly, wants to reclaim for the first time in _forever_. But he supposes that, until now, there was no point in reclaiming a world record that was never broken.

He’s proud of Yuuri. He’s proud of Yurio. He wants to push them farther, push them as far as they can go.

So the second thing that Viktor realizes… is that he _does_ want to skate competitively again. Skate against Yurio. Skate against Yuuri. He wants to grow with both of them at his side, make his comeback, challenge them and take figure skating to a level of competition that has never been seen before.

But Yuuri… Yuuri is _retiring_ . And what will Yuuri even do when he retires? Sure, Yuuri winning gold means marriage, means some sort of future together for them, but Viktor imagines that he will retreat to Hasetsu, work at his family’s inn for God knows how long. And if Viktor wants to return to skating… he would have to train in Russia. That’s _seven thousand_ kilometers of separation. _Seven thousand_...

Asking Yuuri to simply relocate to St. Petersburg is not an option. What would Yuuri even do there, if he is not skating? Sit in Viktor’s apartment and read magazines? And Viktor… Viktor would be at the rink nearly every day, his time consumed, traveling all over the world. So much separation. So much distance, constantly.

 _Damn_ , even with the gold medal and _marriage_ , that distance would become agonizing. It wouldn’t be fair to Yuuri -- it wouldn’t make Yuuri happy.

And what fun would competing be, without Yuuri? A tug-of-war between Viktor and Yurio each year for a gold medal? If Viktor is coming back, he’ll need a greater challenge than just _one_ phenomenal skater.

What he said before holds true. He doesn’t want to skate without Yuuri with him, doesn’t want to practice a routine without Yuuri’s warm brown eyes watching somewhere nearby. He wants to spend so many days -- as many days as possible -- with his arms around Yuuri, or watching Yuuri skate his musical step sequences, or simply sharing the same _air_ as Yuuri.

Yuuri, the person he wants to marry. But not yet. Not like this.

There are things worth waiting for. Things worth _reaching_ for, for however long.

Yuuri’s free program ends with a flourish of piano keys. There are joyful tears burning at the edges of Viktor’s vision as he watches Yuuri extend his hand to him, the gold ring glimmering on the other one on his chest. His body heaves with heavy breaths, causing the ring to catch the light over and over again.

The third thing he realizes… is that just because Yuuri will _probably_ win gold… doesn’t mean that he _will_ . Doesn’t mean that he _should_. Winning gold would surely solidify his resolution to retire.

Gosh, it would be so _unfortunate_ if Yuuri broke a world record and _still_ didn’t win gold. If he came within a hair’s breadth of claiming that medal, only to have it stolen from him at the last possible second. And _gosh_ , it would be so, _so_ _unfortunate_ if that sudden usurpation motivated Yuuri to try another year of figure skating.

And who better to keep Yuuri from retiring than the very boy who demanded his retirement in the first place? The one who constantly belittled him and underestimated him? The one who will surely break Yuuri’s new record next year, without Yuuri to oppose him?

Rivalries can be such powerful things...

Gosh, that would be so terrible, wouldn’t it?

* * *

 

Viktor thinks that it’s the hug that _seals_ it for Yurio.

The second he announced Yuuri’s intention to retire, Viktor saw disbelief -- fury -- in Yurio’s eyes. Maybe a little heartbreak. It’s not entirely unexpected. Viktor remembers the way that Yurio helped Yuuri perfect his quadruple Salchow. And according to Yuuri, Yurio was actually quite civil to him during the trying time in which Yakov acted as Viktor’s substitute.

Yurio has always been a little _too_ concerned with Yuuri’s future, Viktor knows. JJ, he hates. Hates with a passion. But he never discusses his desire for JJ to retire. It’s only Yuuri that he treats this way, Yuuri that he treats like his _true_ rival. A rival that he’s willing to help, even, just to maintain their competitiveness. All those demands for retirement? Talk, just talk. Viktor knows. Viktor can see. Yuuri was the competitor that Yurio _chose_ to challenge, and rightfully so.  

Rivalries are powerful things. They’re the kind of thing that makes skating worthwhile.

Viktor hasn’t had a rival in years. Chris and the others before him… they hardly ever even _compared_. And maybe that’s why he became so disillusioned -- he had nothing to fight for, nothing to fight against.

When Viktor hugs him, he thinks that’s when the realization _smacks_ Yurio. The realization that skating without Yuuri will mean far less. Yuuri’s retirement will hurt Viktor, surely -- empty Viktor of some of the passion he regained. After all their years as rinkmates, Yurio cares enough about Viktor to dislike that possibility at least _a little_. He most certainly won’t want to deal with a distance-heartbroken Viktor for the next few years. And further, Yuuri’s retirement will ebb Yurio’s motivation -- rob him of the only person he considers a true competitor.

Life and love. Both of them, in Viktor and Yurio’s case, attributable to Yuuri. It is solidarity that they share at the end of the day. Viktor needs Yuuri because he loves him. Yurio needs Yuuri because Yuuri inspires him to be _stronger_.

* * *

Yuuri wins silver. Yurio pulled through -- saved them. All three of them.

Viktor tries his hardest to _pretend_ to be upset.

But his pretenses of disappointment are abandoned when Yuuri suddenly shoves him the floor and _straddles_ him, declaring his desire for Viktor to coach him for one more year. “This time I’ll win gold for sure!” he announces confidently. So confidently that Viktor feels his heart hammer with pride.

 _Ecstatic._ Viktor is ecstatic. But Yuuri… Yuuri is too talented, too _beautiful_ to give up now, or next year, or even _three_ years from now. He tells Yuuri to keep going -- keep going for _five_ years, even. To keep going _long_ after Viktor has stopped. And sure, maybe it sounds like a joke, maybe it sounds unattainable, given their situations or their ages, but it’s not. He means it. He really does.

Agreeing to both coach and compete next year… it’ll be difficult, that’s for sure. Nearly impossible, even. But Viktor is good at achieving the impossible, at reaching new heights.

Meanwhile, Yuuri reaches for _him_ , enclosing him in a warm embrace. An embrace that holds a promise for the future that Viktor cannot wait to pursue.

 

* * *

 

At this year’s banquet, neither Yuuri or Viktor get drunk. Not really. After all, there’s truly no need for either of them to drown their sorrows in alcohol tonight. A silver medal and a future skating together are best celebrated _without_ intoxication. They’d obviously like to have _some_ memory of tonight.

Not that Phichit and Chris don’t try to make it happen regardless -- and more so in Yuuri’s case than Viktor’s. They keep casually inching Yuuri toward waiters and waitresses carrying trays, saying not-so-innocent things like, “Oh look! Champagne! Yuuri, don’t you want some?”

“Definitely not,” Yuuri huffs, cheeks flaring bright red as he recalls just what he _doesn’t_ recall from last year’s banquet.

“Come on. I’m sure that _Viktor_ wants you to have some,” Chris urges, with a wink in Viktor’s direction. “Don’t tell me that I brought this pole for nothing.” Chris then adjusts his suit jacket, revealing the glint of something silver sheltered within one of his inner pockets.

Chuckling, Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri’s stomach and rests his chin on the shoulder of his suit. It’s the new one -- the one that Viktor bought for him in Barcelona. Yuuri looks perfect in it as he leans into Viktor, a smile on his lips.

“I think we should _both_ lay off the alcohol this time,” is Viktor’s comment, much to Chris’s disappointment. “For the health and safety of everyone here. Spain is not somewhere I plan to be arrested in, thank you very much.”

Phichit almost pouts, gesturing to his phone pointedly. “You’re ruining our fun! Imagine the photos we’d get if both of you--”

“You’d risk our future for a few good Instagram posts, wouldn’t you?” Yuuri teases, lightly disentangling his torso from Viktor’s arms. Instead, he takes both of Viktor’s hands in his and begins to tug him toward the dance floor. “Besides, I don’t need to be _drunk_ to put on a good show for my future husband.”

Viktor grins, finding the words _future husband_ more intoxicating than sixteen flutes of champagne.

“Okay, but--” Viktor begins, following Yuuri happily. “One of these days, I think I _deserve_ to see you pole dance again.”

“I don’t think you’ve earned it yet, personally.”

“How did you even _learn_ to pole dance?”

“Tell you what, Viktor,” Yuuri says, his voice low as he wraps his hand around Viktor’s tie and _tugs_ slightly. “I’ve changed my mind. Steal that extendable pole from Chris, and I’ll give you a lesson tonight, in the hotel.”

In the hotel--?

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Agh, _gross!_ ” Yurio screeches and gags from somewhere off to their right, where he was standing with Otabek. He begins to storm off the dancefloor, his suit jacket and gold medal trailing behind him. “I need to go bleach my fucking ears, honestly, what the fuck is wrong with you two--”

As he pushes past some fellow skaters, Viktor spots a ghost of a smile on Yurio’s lips. Very small. Very subtle. Yuuri probably didn’t even catch it.

Viktor understands. Yurio has a reputation to maintain, after all.

* * *

 

“Yuuri!” Viktor calls, searching the halls of the onsen, several weeks after the Grand Prix Final. He actually has to weave his way through the guests at the onsen nowadays, it’s become so crowded. Hasetsu is now a prime training destination for young Japanese skaters, which ups its value in terms of tourism.

“In here!” Yuuri calls back from inside his bedroom. Viktor makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat, directed mostly toward himself. He should’ve known.

He arrives at the threshold to find Yuuri’s floor nearly covered in cardboard moving boxes, most of them taped and ready for transport. The address of Viktor’s apartment in St. Petersburg is carefully scrawled on their tops in permanent marker, like Yuuri devoted great time and effort to writing it on each one. Viktor’s heart expands at the very sight, remembering how Yuuri accepted his invitation to train in Russia with him two weeks ago.

“You almost ready?” Viktor asks, tiptoeing his way around Yuuri’s belongings as he enters the room. Currently, Yuuri is frantically digging his way through the drawers of his desk, so focused on the activity that his eyes never meet Viktor’s. “We need to ship this stuff out as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, almost,” Yuuri replies, all-too-engrossed in his search. “I’m just -- I had an extra pair of glasses around here somewhere, and I’d really like to bring them with me...”

He trails off as he shifts his attention to another drawer. Viktor, meanwhile, comes to sit on Yuuri’s bed, feeling the mattress sink as he watches his fiance intently. “I could always buy you another pair in Russia. It’s no big deal,” Viktor offers.

“No, no. They’re definitely here. I saw them the other day.”

“Did you check the closet?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t find anything.”

"Hmm…” Viktor muses, scratching his chin. Wanting to aid in the search, he drops to the floor and sticks his arm below the boxspring, feeling for anything that seems like a pair of glasses. “How about under the bed?”

Viktor’s hand makes contact with a stack of something glossy and smooth. Definitely not a pair of glasses, he thinks, but intriguing nonetheless. Blindly, he latches onto them and pulls them from obscurity to the light. After that… well… it takes a few moments for Viktor to fully register what he found.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I’ll search under that--” Yuuri finally gives up on the drawers and turns to him -- only to see what Viktor so naively discovered hidden beneath the bed.

“N-next…” Yuuri finishes weakly, eyes glued to the pile (yes, it could only be described as a _pile_ ) of Viktor Nikiforov posters clutched in _the_ Viktor Nikiforov’s hands.

Viktor is stunned to say the least, kneeling and staring open-mouthed at the one on top. It’s Viktor, mid-skate, eyes alight with passion and his hand raised high above his head. Tentatively, he slides that poster aside to reveal _another_. This one, featuring a younger Viktor, sporting his long silver hair and hugging Makkachin. Then another, from a photoshoot Viktor did for some magazine last year, wearing a puffy, open-chested shirt while sitting in a cliche room of red.

God… there are _so many_ of them, Viktor everywhere, in the center of a rink, at a press conference, at a club with Christophe Giacometti, skating, skating, skating…

“Uh,” Viktor flounders, looking up at Yuuri. “Wow.”

Yuuri is frozen, eyes wide with terrified embarrassment. Viktor hasn’t seen him look like this in _months_.

“I, uh, didn’t know you liked me this much. Did you have these hanging on your wall?” Viktor continues, shaking off his shock.

Yuuri gulps so heavily that it’s _visible_. “They’re… they’re Phichit’s. Not mine. I accidentally brought them home from college, that’s all.”

“Really?” Viktor asks challengingly, an eyebrow raised. He flips one of the posters over to reveal a message written in pencil on the clean, white surface.

“ _I hope you like your present, Yuuri! Happy Birthday!_ ” it reads. Viktor stares pointedly at him. Phichit’s, huh? Viktor thinks not, and he has the evidence to prove it.

Knowing he is caught, Yuuri covers his blazing face with his hands and sinks to the ground. “You weren’t supposed to…” he moans. “ _God_ , You weren’t _supposed_ to see those… you must think I’m a _total_ creeper--”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says with barely suppressed laughter, crawling his way over to Yuuri, and gently unfolding his fiance from his near-fetal position. “It’s okay. Really.”

“God, I’ll totally understand if you don’t want me to move in with you now--”

“Yuuri, please. I’ll be heartbroken if you don’t move in with me.”

“But I’m a _freak_.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor urges, tilting Yuuri’s chin upwards so that he is _forced_ to stare Viktor in the eye. “I think the posters are adorable. Really.”

“You’re just saying that,” Yuuri protests. “Admit it. You’re weirded out.”

Viktor sighs, realizing that they’re never going to move past this moment unless Viktor embarrasses himself just as much. Thus, he admits, “Yuuri, after last year’s banquet, I practically _stalked_ you, trying to find you. I had your Wikipedia page bookmarked. I checked the news for your activities at least once a day.”

Yuuri squints at him, disbelieving. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Viktor sing-songs, grabbing Yuuri’s hand and rubbing away the anxiety, like he has learned to do so well. “The Eros routine I choreographed for you? It _was_ you. I made it _about_ you. You practically turned me into a lovesick teenager, Yuuri.”

They are silent for several seconds before Yuuri breathes out a single surprised “Oh.”

Viktor stands, tugging Yuuri to his feet with him. “Besides,” he adds, “Your mother already told me that you named your dog after me. You know, I _like_ the fact that you had such a big crush on me. Makes me feel like less of a loser for pining for you so much.”

Yuuri laughs nervously, shoving Viktor playfully. “Okay, okay. So we’re _both_ freaks. But I still need to find those glasses--”

* * *

The shrill beeping of an alarm cuts through Viktor’s slumber like a hot knife. Eyes closed, he fumbles his hand along the surface of the nightstand, searching for his phone -- the phone that is responsible for such an annoying sound. Finally, he locates it and presses the appropriate button, silencing its noisy assault of his ears.

Viktor yawns, finding the lamp next to the phone and switching it on. The illumination destroys the illusion of night, streaks of gold flying across the shadowy expanse of the room. His eyes now open, he can see daylight peeking out from the tightly drawn curtains, indicating the time.

A body stirs beside him at all the commotion. “ _Nooo…”_ it sulkily grumbles, burying its face deeper into the pillow beside Viktor’s. _“‘s too early.”_

Smiling, Viktor takes hold of Yuuri’s right hand, briefly admiring the way their matching golden rings look against each other’s skin tones. But Yuuri’s fingers are _freezing_ \-- remarkably so -- and Viktor feels compelled to warm them in his grasp and touch them to his lips.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Viktor beams, leaning over Yuuri to press another kiss to his nape, lips searching beneath the shaggy shock of hair. It’s grown so _long_ over the last few months. “It’s time for another _exciting_ day of practice with your even more _exciting_ fiance-slash-coach!”

“ _Screw you_ ... _”_ Yuuri mumbles into the pillow, the sound mostly muffled by the fabric. He’s so cranky -- as he usually is -- in the morning. It’s not unexpected in the least. By now, Viktor knows quite well that Yuuri is _very much_ a night owl, and despises waking up accordingly.

“Promise?” Viktor challenges with an even larger grin. Because, really, Viktor would like nothing better.

“Gooo _awaaay,”_ Yuuri huffs in turn, twisting so that he is pointedly facing _away_ from Viktor. In doing so, he wraps himself in the entirety of their blanket and leaves Viktor uncovered and totally bare, pale skin against a pale fitted sheet. “It’s too cold and too early for anything. ‘specially your enthusiasm.”

Laughing, Viktor throws his arms around Yuuri’s middle, snaking one beneath his side so that he is practically _caged_ in Viktor’s embrace. His skin really is quite cold…

“Oh no,” Viktor gasps exaggeratedly. “My Yuuri still isn’t used to these awful Russian temperatures! It’s a good thing I’m here to warm you!”

Despite some annoyed grumblings in Japanese, Yuuri leans into him, reveling in the much-needed body heat radiating from Viktor’s skin. He keeps his eyes shut tight, unshielded by the glasses resting on the other nightstand. Viktor can’t help staring at him. He’s so beautiful, so perfect…  it’s really a miracle that Viktor lets him get up in the mornings at all.

But… there _is_ practice to think about. Yakov threatened to murder Viktor _twice_ over the last week, and the last time -- when they skipped warm-ups for a _reasonably_ _short_ make-out session in the bathroom -- he sounded like he _really_ meant it.

Thus, Viktor jumps out of bed, disentangling himself from Yuuri too quickly for the other man to react. Yuuri is left shivering on the bed. _Reaching_ , reaching ever so blindly for Viktor and his warmth, neither of which are anywhere to be found.

“Vitenka, _please--_ ”

“Come on, Yuuri. I thought you said that you wanted to win gold this year!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri calling Viktor Vitenka is my religion. 
> 
> Writing the last scene was my favorite, by far. I just want them to cuddle a lot, idk.  
> [my tumblr ](https://clark-jkent.tumblr.com/)  
> honestly if anyone wants to send me some prompts i might actually do them i'm bored


End file.
